and pretending you’re the devoted daughter.”
That part was familiar.
For years, Vanessa had told anyone willing to listen that I was the daughter who had “run away.”
What she meant was that I had moved three states away after accepting a job I could not afford to turn down.
To Vanessa, distance was proof of disloyalty.
Apparently the phone calls did not count.
The plane tickets did not count.
The money I had quietly sent whenever Dad needed something did not count.
And the previous forty-eight hours apparently counted
